


Between Pride And Cowardice

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, Creature Fic, M/M, Post-War, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's punishment for not killing Dumbledore was to be turned into a werewolf by Greyback. After the war, he tries to hide from the world but Severus comes to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Pride And Cowardice

**Author's Note:**

> **Dedication:** Written for hp_creatures' first prompt fest, based on a prompt by efflame.  
> **Disclaimer:** The Potterverse is JKR's, not mine. Written for fun, not profit.  
> **Warnings:** Takes a few liberties with canon and goes AU somewhere halfway through the events of DH. There's a bit of angst, too, but nothing that should make fluff lovers flee in fear.

The Moors are covered in a thick, murky mist when the tall, hooded man strides towards the lonely cottage.

He grits his teeth and digs his hands deeper into his cloak pockets.

This isn't the way the story was supposed to end.

The Dark Lord's defeat should have meant a fresh start for all, and—one would have hoped—a step closer to a less prejudiced society.

Of course, the sad truth of the matter is that idealism rarely survives the harsh light of day and one event—no matter how earth shattering—cannot wipe out years of deeply rooted beliefs, especially in the wizarding world, which has always been rather set in its ways.

Still, there was no rational reason for Draco to disappear. No harm would have come to him.

They wouldn't have dared.

Even today, the Malfoy name is one to be feared and respected; in spite of everything,

Why didn't Draco take advantage of that? Any other self-respecting Slytherin would have done in a heartbeat.

The man stops at the front door and knocks once. Twice.

There is no answer.

Shaking his head, he reaches for his wand. One laughably simple spell, and the wooden door opens wide.

He tests the entrance for Wards, traps and anything else of that sort before stepping inside.

He looks around the humble living room. The ashes in the fireplace are still smouldering, so the occupant of this house must have left quite recently.

Severus Snape takes off his cloak, sits down and waits. He has patience, and moreover, he has time and plenty of it.

  
~*~

Dumbledore was right. Draco doesn't want to hurt anyone. He is no killer, not even in his present, regrettable state.

Around every full moon, the urges get more persistent, more violent. It's becoming harder and harder to keep fighting them.

He stumbles upon a field full of grazing sheep, with a sleeping shepherd slumped against a tree.

Every one of his instincts commands him to rip them all to shreds and feast on their flesh like the predator he has become.

It takes him all his self-control and willpower to run away as quickly as his legs will carry him.

So far, the hunger has got the better of him twice. Only twice in five years.

That's still too much.

He keeps running until he's out of breath, dizzy and lightheaded from the cold night air.

He assures himself that he's not an animal, regardless of what he might look like.

He lies down on the damp ground, knowing sleep will claim him soon. He always tires quickly when he doesn't feed.

Of course, the potion helps with that too, even though it's nowhere near as powerful as Wolfsbane, just some diluted brew thrown together from local, easily found ingredients.

Back at Hogwarts, Draco excelled at potions, but he still had plenty to learn, too. He was very keen to do so as well. He hoped to some day follow in Snape's footsteps.

Not much chance of that now, he thinks bitterly. Greyback may not have killed him, but he did take his life on another—perhaps an even crueller—level.

Sighing, he rests his head on his paws.

When did the outside world become so frightening? He hasn't a clue. He was never any good at this introspection lark.

He tries to think, to remember, but his stomach is empty and his eyes refuse to stay open.

He drifts off with a vague sense of accomplishment. It has been another day without bloodshed. He didn't relinquish control.

  
~*~

By the time Draco awakens, bright spring sunshine has already chased away all the fog.

He lies naked and shivering in a field he doesn't recognise.

The wolf knows the area like the back of its paw. The man cannot make similar claims.

Draco sighs. Some day, he's certain, the authorities will catch up with him and put him away for everyone's safety, including his own.

Maybe they'll even kill him on the spot once they discover what a monster he is.

Some nights, that possibility fuels Draco's worst nightmares, but at times like this, he almost wishes for it.

  
~*~

The creaking of the opening door roughly pulls him from his slumber.

Severus reaches for his wand, just in case, but soon realises he needn't have bothered.

A tall, painfully skinny young man staggers into the room. He has a thin, dirty sheet wrapped around himself. His bare legs and feet are covered in moss and mud.

Severus can't stop the mocking sneer that tugs at the corners of his mouth. Clearly, Malfoy standards have slipped in recent years.

"Oh dear. What do you think you're wearing, Draco?" he asks. His voice bounces off the bare walls and sounds a lot more ominous than intended.

Petrified, the young man leaps back, turns around and flees from the cottage. The sheet billows around him, making him look like a drunken ghost.

"Blast! Not again," Severus mutters under his breath. He whips out his wand and shouts, "Stupefy!"

Draco keels over, sustaining a few extra bruises as he hits the ground.

Severus inhales sharply.

This is scarcely how he'd pictured their reunion, and how exactly did Draco ever end up such a pitiful wreck?

  
~*~

Draco awakens dressed in cotton pyjamas and lying between clean, crispy sheets.

He hasn't felt this rested in ages, or for that matter, quite as confused.

Memories flash through his mind's eye at neck-breaking speed.

Not a single one of them is pleasant.

Miles and miles of wading through mud and damp grass, with cold wind whipping his face and nothing but adrenaline driving him onward.

Somewhere along the way, he stole a sheet from a clothing line. It was the only wearable item he could find, and modesty aside, he didn't much fancy being reported for indecent exposure, or whatever that Muggle term may be.

Mother would be so ashamed if she were in any shape to understand, and Father…

Well, Father hasn't been impressed with him for years, but Draco cares far less than he used to.

Lying here against the soft pillows, feeling so warm and cosy, he can almost pretend that life is back to normal and that this is merely a sabbatical—an extended holiday.

Almost, but not quite. He's too old for self-delusion, and he knows full well that refusing to face reality can be dangerous; lethal, even, in certain circumstances.

The facts, as he remembers them, are that there was someone in the cottage earlier; someone who looked and sounded exactly like…

No. That's impossible.

The stranger—yes, definitely a stranger—washed him, tended to his wounds and probably gave him a restorative potion before putting him to bed.

Precisely what Severus would have done.

But Severus is dead, slain by sharp fangs and venom.

Then who on earth…?

Draco looks around the room. It's clean and cosy.

Perhaps he'd even consider it homely were it not for the fact that a stranger was here; possibly still is, somewhere downstairs, waiting, biding his time.

A stranger who happens to be the spitting image of Severus Snape.

Draco's inner peace shatters once more.

  
~*~

Severus stirs the bubbling brew counter-clockwise a second time.

The humble cottage kitchen is hardly a potions lab, but he has worked with less.

It's baffling trying to imagine the sort of life the young man upstairs must have led these past few years.

Severus heard some rumours, of course—they even reached the Muggle world he'd immersed himself in—but he isn't the type of person to hold much stock to idle chatter.

Besides, part of him yearned to forget, move on, build a new life, and if at all possible, do something worthwhile with however many years he might have left.

Still, in hindsight, perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss all that talk as gossip. He never took a word of those rumours seriously until that fateful Wednesday when he found himself in Diagon Alley, heavily disguised.

He had been most reluctant to go there in the first place, but there remained the matter of Nagini's poison. To this day, he needs to take the antidote religiously, or suffer terrible, lethal consequences.

Severus had barely exited the apothecary that afternoon when he heard two familiar, albeit slightly older voices.

"Oh, I don't think I told you this yet, Ron, but someone asked me about Malfoy the other day."

"Malfoy?"

"Yeah, whether we'd heard anything from him lately. It was sort of random and… pretty odd."

Weasley gave an undignified snort. "Why would we even want to hear from him, mate?"

"Good point," Potter said in response, but the words didn't sound too convincing.

Severus shakes his head and snaps himself back to the present.

If only he'd known beforehand that the Dark Lord's punishment would have such a devastating effect on Draco.

True enough, some amount of humiliation was to expected—a pureblood, especially a Malfoy, becoming a werewolf is an inconvenience in more ways than one—but still…

Severus never foresaw this kind of impact.

No matter. It's no use dwelling on any of that now. The potion should be done soon.

In no time at all, Draco will be ready and able to face the world again.

~*~

Draco opens his eyes. He's uncertain when exactly sleep claimed him once more, but judging by the dim light in the room, it must be past dinnertime already.

His surroundings slowly shift into focus.

He distinguishes a man standing by the door, and almost screams when he recognises the tall, lanky features.

Draco looks around, desperately searching the room for his wand, but it's nowhere in sight.

"Don't fret, Mister Malfoy," the man says in that tone Draco knows only too well. "Had it been my intention to harm you, I would have already done so while you were still unconscious."

Draco gulps. "Y-You're not," he stammers in a voice hoarse from disuse. "You most certainly can't be. The venom…" He swallows thickly. "T-This is some kind of trick, isn't it? What are you after? Is this a-a reckoning, or did one of my father's… associates send you?"

Severus raises an eyebrow. "Clearly, living like a savage has distorted your sense of logic." He crosses his arms and gives Draco an expectant, almost challenging look. "Let's cut to the chase, shall we? What proof of my identity would be satisfactory?"

Draco swallows hard and says, as if he never heard the question, "Y-You're dead."

Severus shakes his head and replies, enunciating every syllable as if he's talking to a toddler, or some thick-as-two-planks Ministry official (which would be most of them, actually), "Let me assure you, Draco, I am very much alive."

It's the first time in a long while that he addresses him by his given name, and the realisation sends a shiver up and down Draco's spine.

For the most part, what is happening still seems like a deadly trap or a cruel joke or even worse, a terrible combination of both.

Draco had almost stopped mourning and regretting that he would never be able to put right all those wrongs or prove his worth to the man who saved him from such a horrible fate, and now Severus is standing right there in front of him as the first witness to how he has hit rock bottom once again.

"I-Is it really you?" Draco's voice is small, uncertain. He feels like he's eleven all over again, when he was so scared about being so far away from home, even if it was only Hogwarts and not Durmstrang because Mother would have worried so if it had been.

Severus gives a curt nod. "Yes."

"I-I'm glad," Draco whispers. It isn't quite what he wants to say and it doesn't even touch upon the anger that's bubbling up deep inside him at the knowledge that Severus was still alive and kicking all along, and yet the man allowed Draco to grieve and wallow in guilt and loneliness. Didn't he ever stop to consider how lost Draco would be without him, especially with his father in prison, and his mother—No. Draco would rather not think about his mother.

Tears burn behind his eyelids, but he refuses to let them flow. His current predicament is humiliating enough without him turning into a blubbing nuisance, too.

"Get some more rest," Severus says, his voice kinder this time. "We'll discuss this properly once you have your strength back."

Draco nods and sinks back against the pillows. Rest does sound good, and sliding back into sleep's sweet oblivion soon proves too tempting to resist.

  
~*~

The one question he's been hoping so desperately to avoid catches up with him two days later during lunch.

"Why did you decide to leave everything behind?" Severus asks plainly, out of nowhere. His tone is neutral and his expression blank.

Draco coughs nervously. The precise reasons why he fled are hard to put into words, and the main one is too embarrassing to mention, but he's well aware that he needs to say something, and it had better be convincing, too. Severus Snape isn't the sort of person who allows himself to be brushed off.

Draco takes a deep breath and begins, "After the war, life wasn't easy, let alone pleasant. Father was sentenced to fifteen years in Azkaban. A few days after his trial, Mother was admitted to St. Mungo's, and she's"—he swallows hard—"like a vegetable most of the time. She hasn't spoken to anyone, not even the Healers, in ages. She just lies there, staring at the ceiling. And then the press"—he shakes his head and runs a trembling hand through his hair—"was having a field day. Those vultures from The Prophet had even taken to camping on the Manor's grounds. Then there was also my recently acquired… condition. I had to hide it from them, obviously, and I knew the remaining Wolfsbane wouldn't last me much longer. I stuck it out for two months, and then I left." He hesitates. "I didn't want to risk being arrested myself."

Draco holds his breath and waits for Severus' reaction.

He needn't wait for very long.

"You do realise, do you not, that you could have easily Warded the grounds, or issued a formal complaint with the Ministry? I'm convinced that one Owl from you and Skeeter's lot would have been dealt with in an instant."

Draco sighs. "I considered it," he admits, "but I was worried that a blatant refusal to speak to those reporters would only make them dig their heels in deeper, and perhaps my silence would also implicate me as someone who… well, had something to hide, which of course"—he gives a wry smile—"I actually did; and still do."

Severus frowns. "Lycanthropy is nothing to be ashamed of, particularly in your case. You were infected as a punishment for doing the right thing. That would make you a martyr"—he smirks—"or possibly even a hero."

"A hero?" Draco sneers. "Isn't that term more fitting for someone who acted as double agent for decades and even lived through a lethal snake bite but would rather play dead—literally— than accept any kind of honour or reward?"

To Draco's astonishment, Severus chuckles. "Touché, Mister Malfoy," he replies and takes another sip of his tea. "It's encouraging to see you haven't completely lost your…bite, as it were."

Missing the pun entirely, Draco lets out a relieved sigh, glad that this conversation is over, for now.

  
~*~

Long ago, even before Lily's death, he made a conscious choice to leave such emotions far behind him. They only make one vulnerable and weak.

Nevertheless, Draco Malfoy has this bothersome habit of getting under his skin.

Perhaps Severus should have contacted him sooner to let him know what had truly happened; or he could have stopped by occasionally to discreetly check on things. Then this situation mightn't have got so dreadfully out of hand.

Rationally speaking, he probably should have anticipated something like this.

Draco has always been too dependent for his own good, relying on the opinions of people he respects rather than making up his own mind, forming his own judgments.

Thus, it's not terribly surprising that on the one occasion where he did think for himself, he ended up in a crumbling shack in the middle of nowhere.

Yes, perhaps Severus should have seen this coming.

Draco's world fell apart at Lucius' first incarceration, and it was pretty much a given that the man would find himself behind bars again once the war was over. Too many people were out for blood, and the Imperius excuse wasn't going to stick this time. Even Ministry stupidity has its limits.

And without Potter to taunt…

Severus shakes his head. If his memory serves him well, things were actually improving between Draco and Potter. The two of them had come to a truce of sorts.

Or was that more a curse than a blessing?

Trying to best Harry Potter had kept Draco on his toes, and stopped him from dwelling too much on other things.

An unoccupied mind can be prone to dangerous wanderings and ill-advised decisions.

Then it occurs to him. Perhaps Draco should go and speak to Potter. Maybe that's where the answer lies.

Severus can't quite place his finger on it, but he has a niggling suspicion that those two still have unfinished business, and whatever it is has little to nothing to do with the war.

~*~

The following weeks pass without incident and after two full moons, Severus is already close to finalising his new experimental potion, one that—if his findings are correct—will suppress Draco's Lycanthropy completely.

Or rather, Draco will still transform but he'll also sleep through the urges and afterwards, he'll wake up starving but also unharmed and innocent. He won't be tempted to kill again.

The only downside to Severus' concoction is the necessity of one extremely rare and equally expensive ingredient.

His own financial means are quite limited—as one may expect from someone who is technically deceased—and even though Draco possesses full control over the entire Malfoy fortune, the young man hasn't been to Gringotts in years. Severus assumes he withdrew a vast amount of money and had it changed to Muggle currency before he fled.

Severus can't but wonder how much longer that cash will last, and whether funds might be another reason to encourage Draco to move back to the wizarding world where he belongs. Honestly, what kind of future does that boy even hope to have here?

"It's your turn," Draco says.

Severus looks up and smirks. Thin fingers slowly push the chess piece forward. The smirk widens. "It would appear that I have beaten you again, Mister Malfoy."

In that very moment, Severus realises there won't be any need to resort to Legilimency to discover Draco's true state of mind. The expression on that pale face speaks volumes.

You usually do.

Perhaps it won't be such a struggle after all, to convince him to return home.

  
~*~

It is a warm Monday in the middle of August when right after dinner, another question catches Draco off guard.

"Isn't it about time you told me the whole story?" Severus remarks, ever so casually, before joining the young man on the sofa.

"Pardon?" Draco replies awkwardly, stalling for time.

"About your rather hasty departure."

"W-Well," Draco replies a bit too quickly, fumbling for words, "like I already told you, I was ashamed and worried that I might be thrown in Azkaban, myself. The press was… relentless in its pursuit of, well, whatever it was they wanted from me."

Severus nods slowly. "Yes, Draco. I'm already aware of all that. However, there is more to this wretched business, is there not? Something you're keeping from me? Something quite crucial?"

"I—yes, but"—Draco swallows audibly—"it's complicated."

Severus waves a dismissive hand. "We have all the time in the world; certainly more than enough for you to make me understand your line of reasoning."

Draco bites his lip, then sighs in defeat. "It, um, was partly, well, mostly because of Potter. We—"

"Potter." Severus shakes his head. "Always that damned Potter. I was under the impression that during the course of the war, the two of you had become"—he practically spits out the next word—"friends."

Draco's face floods with colour. He realises it would be pointless to lie. He cannot possibly fool this man. Severus knows him too well.

"W-We weren't exactly friends," he begins hesitantly.

Severus raises an eyebrow. "You weren't?"

"The animosity between us more or less ended after he rescued me from that fire." Even now, the memory sends a chill up and down Draco's spine.

"Ah yes; Crabbe's final and decidedly fatal farce." Severus notices the way Draco flinches, but he continues, unfazed, "So, from that day on, your relationship with Potter changed?"

"Yes. We…" Draco coughs nervously. Unable to look Severus in the face, he directs his gaze to the floor instead. "We talked later that night. Neither of us could sleep. Har-Potter went to fetch some Whiskey he knew Moody kept stashed away somewhere, and somehow…"

"Somehow…?"

"We ended up in this… room… and started hitting the bottle—Merlin knows how much we drank—and well, the details are a little vague, even now, but that night, somehow, we went from one extreme to another."

Severus raises a questioning eyebrow.

"God, do I really have to spell it out, Snape?" Draco yells, exasperated by the lack of response. "Fine then; we slept together! I don't think either of us knew why. It just happened. Blame it on the Whiskey, if you must. I did, at the time. Then the following morning, he had to leave early, attend some meeting, and we didn't get the chance to talk and…" He shakes his head, not a clue what else to add.

"I see. You and Potter shared a one-night-stand."

"No," Draco says quickly. "We, um… It happened again; more than once."

"So what you're trying to express is that you and Potter had some sort of romantic involvement?" Severus asks slowly, struggling to ignore how the very thought turns his stomach. He couldn't care less about Draco's sexual preferences, but falling for a Potter is nauseating by default, regardless which gender the affected party happens to be.

"Yes," comes the muttered response, "and at the same time, no."

"You're not making much sense, Draco, and I'm not merely referring to your unfortunate choice in bed partners."

"We never"—he sighs—"actually discussed what we were doing. I suppose us sleeping together was just his way of coping or... something, and then he went off again with Weasley—Ron Weasley, that is—and Granger, and by the time he got back, after several weeks"—Draco grits his teeth and forces himself to say the rest of the words; he's well aware that Severus won't let the subject rest otherwise; horrible, stubborn old man—"when I saw him again, Ginevra Weasley was all over him like a rash, and he didn't seem to mind in the slightest, and well…"

"Ginevra Weasley," Severus repeats, his tone betraying no emotion.

Draco nods. "So for the second time," he says bitterly, "I'd lost him to a bloody Weasley; assuming I ever had him in the first place. It's not like we ever mentioned mutual affection or any kind of commitment, or… fucking hell!"

"Kindly cease these adolescent outbursts, Mister Malfoy," Severus snaps. "They are hardly becoming, and furthermore, I lack the good humour and patience at present."

Draco opens his mouth to protest, to inform his former mentor that if he cannot handle the answer then perhaps he oughtn't have asked the question, but Severus doesn't give him the chance to get a word in edgewise.

"Listen very carefully, Draco. I haven't the faintest idea what transpired between Potter and the Weasley girl during the war, nor am I particularly keen to research the matter, but I do know that she is currently married to Neville Longbottom, and I believe, happily."

Draco's jaw drops. "Neville Longbottom?"

"Indeed. I heard it was a relatively small ceremony, save for the staggering number of Weasleys present."

Draco blinks. "Really?"

"I would hardly joke about such things."

"And what about"—he is almost afraid to ask—"Potter?"

"Potter still resides at Black's old house, and so far as I'm aware, all by himself."

Draco's eyes widen, but he doesn't utter another word. Once again, he doesn't need to. The look on his face says it all.

  
~*~

The gargoyles by the door shoot him venomous glares as he walks up the steps to the main entrance.

On the outside, number 12, Grimmauld Place is even more daunting than Draco remembers it.

He was surprised to learn that Harry Potter still lives there, but perhaps he shouldn't have been.

Sirius Black was the only family Potter ever knew, save for those uncouth Muggles who treated him like dirt, and perhaps this is Potter's way of feeling connected to him.

No, not Potter.

Draco really ought to start referring to him by his first name again, if they're ever going to pick things up where they left them; assuming Harry would even be willing to give him another chance.

Draco takes a deep breath. He has no certainties at all on that front. In fact, the odds are probably in favour of him getting his heart broken a second time.

Harry might give him the cold shoulder—and with good reason—or worse, he might suspect this to be a trap and hex Draco on the spot. It wouldn't be the first time.

Of course, there also exists the possibility that Severus' information is incorrect.

After all, like Draco, the man has been in hiding for many years. It's not unthinkable that whoever let him know about the Longbottom-Weasley wedding got it wrong or worse, lied on purpose.

Draco shakes his head. That sort of speculation is useless. He'd be better off focusing on the present, and that future he so longs for.

He rakes a hand through his hair before he reaches for the brass doorknocker. It's a little lion. How appropriate.

For a good ten minutes, no one shows. Draco is already considering leaving again when finally the door opens.

Standing there is Harry Potter, dressed in blue trainers, worn jeans and a faded green T-shirt. His eyes are impossibly wide and full of questions.

At least he doesn't look angry. Yet.

Draco tries to speak, but the well-rehearsed lines get stuck in his throat.

Harry mutters something unintelligible and Draco finds himself pulled into a tight, almost crushing hug.

He awkwardly returns the embrace and tries to ignore the way his heart leaps up into his throat. Did Harry really miss him this much?

Harry takes a step back and asks, his voice wavering, "I-Is it really you, Malfoy?"

Draco snaps out of his daze. "Shouldn't you have asked me that before you tried to break my ribs?" he replies, smiling.

"Sorry. I," Harry begins, but then shakes his head. "Bloody hell! Why am I even apologising? God. I should be furious at you!"

"Wouldn't blame you at all if you were, either," Draco says softly, in a humble tone he'd never use otherwise or with anyone else.

Harry shakes his head. He runs a hand through his hair and pushes his glasses higher up his nose.

"Are you?" Draco continues. "Angry, that is?"

"I-" Harry frowns. "A bit, but… Where did you go? Where have you been all this time?'

"Do you truly expect me to answer that on your doorstep?" Draco replies, feeling quite worried all of a sudden. He has no intention of discussing his current life out here, for all and sundry to hear. That goes doubly for that unfortunate complication Greyback lumbered him with.

"All right," Harry says after a moment's consideration. He steps into the hallway. "You'd better come in then."

  
~*~

"Voldemort ordered Fenrir to turn you into a werewolf," Harry says slowly, something ominous to his tone.

Draco gives a tentative nod. "It was a task he carried out with great zeal too, as I'm certain you can imagine."

Harry flinches, despite himself. "A-And that was the reason behind your little disappearing act?"

Draco nods again. "In a nutshell, yes. With Severus gone, the Wolfsbane running out, the press on my heel all the time,"—he takes a deep breath—"Father behind bars, Mother stuck in that horrible place, barely able to remember her own name… In the end, I didn't have much of a choice anymore."

Harry leaps up from his chair and begins to pace the room; back and forth, circling the two settees.

Draco, for his part, doesn't utter another word. He just waits anxiously. The loaded silence makes three minutes seem like a lifetime.

"For fuck's sake, Malfoy!" Harry then yells, a murderous expression on his face. "Does the name Remus Lupin mean anything to you?"

Draco's eyes widen.

"Or Teddy Lupin, who's my godson, for crying out loud?"

Harry doesn't bother to wait for a response. He strides to where Draco is seated, grabs him by the shoulders and continues in a hiss, "Did you really think I'd allow anyone to make your life difficult? You were barely seventeen. You didn't stand a chance against that-that monster."

Abruptly, he releases Draco again and strides to the fireplace, muttering to himself, "Stupid Slytherin pride and cowardice."

"Don't call us cowards, Potter!" Draco rises from his chair, clenches his fists and walks towards Harry. "Did you really think it was a decision I took lightly? I had so much on my plate after the war, and then you, Potter—you…" He shakes his head. The right words won't come. He used to be so much more eloquent than this.

Harry frowns. "What about me? What am I supposed to have done?"

Draco's laugh is bitter and hollow. "Aside from shacking up with the Weasley girl, you mean?"

Harry's jaw drops. "Y-You think Ginny and I…"

"Every time I saw you, Potter—and granted, that wasn't often; you were highly in demand, as I recall—the two of you were attached at the hip."

"That didn't mean what you—" Harry begins, but Draco isn't listening.

"So I got to thinking, Potter," he continues, "that perhaps things were better off that way. You'd always longed for a family, and I'd never be able to give you one."

Harry blinks. "So the reason you barely spoke to me after I came back was Ginny?" he asks, baffled.

"Yes." Draco sighs. "I assumed things between us were over, and I decided to save myself the pain of being rejected again. Though you have to admit, you didn't exactly fall over yourself trying to approach me and set the record straight, either, did you?"

"W-Well," Harry stammers, "from the way you were always glaring at me, I-I gathered you were angry about your father's arrest or wanted nothing further to do with me for some other reason. I thought—"

"Go on."

"I thought our—um, well, that to you what we had was just…" Harry bites his lip.

"A way of coping through the worst of the war?" Draco offers.

Harry nods. "Something like that; yeah."

Draco doesn't know whether to laugh, cry or bang his head against the nearest wall, but none of those seems appropriate, so he just settles for a muttered "Oh."

"You're an idiot, Malfoy," Harry says with a wan smile, "and I should be furious."

"But you're not?"

Harry sighs. He doesn't yet know how he feels, so instead of replying, he asks, "Why are you here now, after all that time?"

"Well,"—gathering his courage, Draco pauses—"someone helped me realise that I'd made an error in judgment."

"Oh?" Harry crosses his arms. "And who might that be?"

Draco hesitates. He should have expected that question. Gryffindors don't appreciate riddles, and they never hesitate to demand instant clarification either.

"That's… not my secret to tell," he says, and cringes inwardly, knowing his response won't be well received. Perhaps he should have thought this visit through a bit better, especially the communication part. It stood to reason that sorting this out would require a lot more than a generous helping of humble pie.

"More secrets, Malfoy?" Harry snaps. "Well, isn't that just bloody brilliant!"

Draco almost squirms. This isn't working, he decides. Severus got it all wrong. This whole endeavour was pointless. What was he even thinking, coming here?

He swallows hard before speaking again. "Perhaps I should go. Sorry to have wasted your time. It was… nice to see you're doing all right."

He daren't look at Harry. He doesn't want to see the disdain and disgust that must be written all over the man's face. In hindsight, it would have been better to have left things as they were; vague and compared to this, altogether painless.

He sighs and turns to leave, but the moment he places his hand on the doorknob, he hears Harry speak again.

"Draco?"

He turns around, puzzled.

"Stay?" Harry's voice is small, uncertain.

Draco frowns. "I beg your pardon?"

"For dinner, I mean? I-I don't want us to part on bad terms; not again."

Draco briefly studies Harry's expression for any signs of jest. Satisfied to have found none, he nods. "All right, Potter. I'll have dinner with you."

  
~*~

It's a new and in some ways rather strange experience to be sitting across the table from Potter-Harry-Harry Potter.

They've never done this before, just the two of them having a meal and a chat.

When Draco accepted the invitation, he expected the evening to be awkward, strained.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

It turns out he and Harry get along brilliantly, even after all that time, or perhaps precisely because it's been a few years since their last meeting.

"Would you like some more cake?" Harry asks, grinning.

Draco shakes his head. "No, thank you. I'm quite full. Where did you learn to bake anyhow? Or did one of your elves make it?"

"No. I freed all the elves, actually, except Kreacher, but he doesn't cook anymore. His coordination isn't what it was."

"Ah."

"I don't mind doing it myself, though." Harry smiles, almost apologetically. "I'm a man of leisure now, you know, and well, cooking is as good a hobby as any."

"Mm," Draco says and takes another sip of his tea. "I remember you cooked breakfast during the war, too. Of course, that was just bacon and eggs; anyone can manage that."

"Except for you, you mean," Harry retorts, chuckling at the memory. "I remember it quite vividly. You couldn't even get the cooker to work."

"Well, excuse me, but I'm a pureblood wizard. I was never taught how to—" Draco begins, indignantly, but then he laughs, too. "Fair enough, Harry. I'll have you know, however, that I'm quite capable of preparing my own food now; even though I don't eat all that much.

"No. You're skinnier than I remember," Harry says. "Perhaps I should make it my next mission to fatten you up a bit."

Draco grins. "You can try. Malfoys are known for their lean physique, however, so I don't fancy your chances."

"Ponce," Harry says, laughing. He briefly considers throwing a sugar cube at the smug face in front of him, but decides against it. They aren't at Hogwarts anymore.

Draco is about to retort when he hears the chimes of the grandfather clock. A quick glance tells him that it's midnight. How did it get this late already?

"Right," he says, moving to stand. "It's been very pleasant, Harry, but I should probably go. I have a friend waiting for me and I wouldn't want to worry him."

Harry's face falls. "A f-friend?"

"It's not what you think," Draco interjects quickly, feeling more hopeful by the minute. "He's just a friend, not a… partner, but he will be worried if I don't show up soon."

"Right." Harry rises from his chair, too. "It was really nice to see you again, and to"—he hesitates—"clear the air."

"Yes," Draco agrees. "It was."

Harry bites his lip. "Will I see you again?"

Draco struggles to suppress the wide grin that threatens to burst across his face. He only half-succeeds. "If you'd like. When?"

"Tomorrow?" Harry blurts out and blushes at his own eagerness.

"Very well." Draco quits trying to hide the grin. "I'll be here at noon."

"Okay." Harry smiles again, and for a few moments, the room is silent—a different silence than before—until Draco makes a decision.

He leans across the table and presses a feather light kiss to Harry's lips. "Tomorrow, then."

Harry shivers. "Draco. I—"

"Tomorrow," he repeats, ruffles Harry's hair, and quickly heads for the door. He realises that if he turns around and hesitates, just for a second, he'll end up staying the night, and tempting though that thought may be, it would also be a terrible idea.

They still have so much to discuss, to sort out, and Draco wants to get it right this time; not allow their rekindled closeness to crash between assumptions and misunderstandings like it did before.

When he shuts the door behind him, he feels both relieved and determined.

He has finally stopped running. 


End file.
